Christmas Eve Can Kill You
by staphylococci
Summary: I was just about ready to clock the lady in line when I heard it. Something I'd never heard before. Something that drilled a hole right through me, like a sword, or a harpoon, or the giant tusk from a narwhal—select your weapon of choice. Something that set me over the edge. And boy did it slice through me like I was a good ol' Christmas ham. [M/F] [Post-SOF]


It was Christmas Eve, it was cold, and it was—of all things—_sleeting_. Not rain, which typically meant temperatures above freezing; rain, something that I was familiar with and could _deal _with. It wasn't _snow, _something light, airy, downright _pretty_—and something else I could totally deal with. And it certainly wasn't _sun_.

No, it was sleet. Wet, slushy, grey, and a lovely concoction of ice and the decadent sangria that was the mystery liquid lining the streets of NYC.

Yes, we were back in NYC, mostly because it was the only place we'd found any sort of lead (read: the Institute). The city was exactly the same as it had been last year, except with more hipsters and less ozone layer. We'd been here for weeks and had found exactly nada, zilch, zippo, making me quite possibly the most miserable human-avian hybrid in all the world. Which, considering there were only six of us (as far as we knew at this point), wasn't the most shocking thing.

Just to paint a clear picture of the mood I was in:

1\. My boot had ripped the day prior when we'd had to high-tail it from a group of Erasers, leaving me wet-socked and cold.

2\. My back ached from the freezing, ice-covered subway tunnel ground I'd slept on the night before.

2a. The subway tunnel smelled like pee.

2b. Either pee or the squirrel corpse less than a hundred feet from us. Or both.

3\. Gazzy was sick as a dog and not getting better despite excessive doses of DayQuil and Sudafed and large quantities of tea. It was unlike me to worry so much, but it was unlike us to be sick. Stress is not cute on me.

Et cetera, et cetera. I'm sure you get the idea.

I was in a McDonald's on the corner of 8th and West 43rd. The woman in front of me couldn't decide if she wanted two single Quarter Pounders or one Double Quarter Pounder. I wasn't really the one to judge, based on the gigantic volume of food I was about to order for my family of six mutant bird kids, but we also needed about three thousand calories a day, where this woman could survive on about half of what this single meal was about to give her.

I was just about ready to clock her when I heard it. Something I'd never heard before. Something that drilled a hole right through me, like a sword, or a harpoon, or the giant tusk from a narwhal—select your weapon of choice. Something that set me over the edge.

_The winter's flaking snow is brushing through the pinewood trees; I stick my hands down deep inside my coat. I think of years ago and half-remembered Christmas trees and faces that still warm me with their glow… _

I'm always pretty tapped into my surroundings, but over time I've learned to tune out minor details like car horns and elevator music. Since I'd been waiting in line for what felt like an eternity, I'd heard what felt like every Christmas song in the catalogue. This one was different. I'd never heard it before—the voice was haunting. And boy did it slice through me like I was a good ol' Christmas ham.

_The cold and empty evening hangs around me like a ghost; I listen to my footsteps in the snow. The sound of one man walking through the snow can break your heart, but stopping doesn't help, so on I'll go…_

I felt myself break into a cold sweat, but I couldn't figure out why. This wasn't our first Christmas on the run (and at this rate it probably wouldn't be our last), and despite conscious efforts none of us ever felt particularly in the Christmas mood. The year after Jeb left us I'd gone all out—cut down a tree, lined the E-house with tinsel, faked my way through a cut-n-bake gingerbread house, sloppily wrapped dollar store gifts for each member of the flock—but all my efforts felt flat, so that was that.

So why was this stupid Christmas song gutting me? In the middle of a McDonald's, no less?

…_And Christmas Eve can kill you when you're trying to hitch a ride to anywhere. _

It was normal to be emotional, I rationalized, swallowing the giant lump in my throat and focusing on how bad I wanted to throttle the lady in front of me in line. Gazzy was sick. We were on the run. I was cold. I was tired. I was miserable. I felt about as grey as the sloshy mess that lined the sidewalks. I probably didn't look much better.

_The icy air I'm breathing is all that keeps me on my feet; I feel like I've been walking all my life…_

It was all I could hear. I gritted my teeth and stared at the menu, hard, looking at the calorie counts, doing mental math to the best of my ability, trying to tune out the rest of reality.

…_A car goes running by, the man don't even turn his head—I guess he's busy being Santa Claus tonight._

"Can I take your order?"

…_And Christmas Eve can kill you when you're trying to hitch a ride to anywhere._

"Ma'am?"

I'd forgotten I was in line. "Um," I said, silently begging a single synapse to fire. Yet instead of the lengthy order I'd recited about six times in my head, what came out of my mouth was: "I'll—uh—I'm not sure—sorry."

…_Oh, God forgive the man who drives right by the other man; have pity on the stranger in the cold, 'cause Christmas Eve can kill you when you're trying to hitch a ride to anywhere._

And without permission, my feet walked me right out the door and into the winter.

The cold air filled my lungs too quickly and I hacked harshly against it. In no time flat, I felt myself go from _maybe fine _to _immensely not okay, _a state that found me leaning against the brick wall of a nearby alley, bent at the waist, hyperventilating so dramatically that my vision filled with spots.

"You're fine," I gasped to myself. "Everything's fine. Oh, God. Pull it together. Deal with it. You're fine."

I was shaking, but I wasn't sure if it was from the subzero temperatures or the full-blown psychotic break I was having. My teeth chattered. Passerby had to be staring, but I didn't have the energy to care.

"You're fine," I whispered again, willing it to be true.

"Are you alright?"

My head jerked upward so quickly that I nearly toppled over sideways. Standing in front of me was Double Quarter Pounder Lady—she was wearing a large, fluffy scarf and a concerned expression on her face.

"F-fine," I managed. "I'm fine."

"Honey, you don't seem fine," she said softly. "Why don't we get out of the cold? Maybe I can call your parents."

Oh, God, not this shit.

"Or a cab," she said quickly, seeing my face.

"I'm fine." My voice was still shaky.

"Max?"

I jumped again at this voice. It was familiar, strong, and warm.

It was Fang.

"_Fang_? I mean—I—_Nick_?"

"I thought we were meeting at Starbucks," he said levelly, but his eyes were positively scalding.

I opened my mouth to speak but couldn't.

"I think she's having a bit of a panic attack," said Double Quarter Pounder Lady. She squinted at Fang.

"She's my girlfriend," Fang said smoothly. "Come on, Max. Let's get hot chocolate. We're all set, ma'am. Thank you."

She still looked concerned, but she nodded. "Merry Christmas to you both. Take care of yourself," she said to me with a nod.

She turned to leave. I still hadn't caught my breath, but Fang grabbed me by the shoulder and started walking with me.

"Why are you here?"

"You were taking a while. I got curious."

We passed the McDonald's without entering.

"Where are we going?"

"I already told you," he said without looking at me. "To get hot chocolate." He put an arm around my shoulders and rubbed my shoulder with his hand. "You're shaking."

Recent events indicated that I'd entered an alternate universe. Every single thought flew from my mind as I focused on the warm, solid feeling of _Fang _next to me.

"Hot chocolate?" I asked idly as we approached Starbucks. He held the door open for me. I stood there and blinked at him.

"I'll stand here all day," he said simply. I walked in.

Since I was acting almost entirely on autopilot, Fang stepped up to the counter and ordered a large hot chocolate and a giant chocolate chip cookie. He handed me the hot chocolate and shoved the cookie into the front pocket of his jacket.

As we walked out the door, I realized that these were the actions of a Concerned Fang—he recognized that something significant had happened to rattle me.

The thing was that nothing _significant _had happened.

"Fang, I'm—"

"I know. You're fine." He gestured toward a nearby subway station. "Walk."

We descended into the underbelly of the city, doing our best to blend into the subway-platform bustle. Panic rose in my chest again, but Fang took me by the hand and pushed meaningfully through the crowd. The sound of a tenor saxophone broke through the dull roar of voices.

Fang found a deserted end of the subway platform, far enough away from everyone that we could sit and talk privately and be written off as a couple of lowlife teenagers.

We sat on the cold concrete. I was still clutching the hot chocolate between my hands. Fang pulled the cookie out from his jacket, broke it in half, and handed me a piece.

"Why—"

"Figured you couldn't fly. Warmer down here. No one should bug us, since we're definitely not the craziest people on this platform."

"I'm fine."

Fang nodded and took a bite of cookie, still not looking at me. "I heard you the first time. And the second time."

I took a deep breath.

"You gonna drink that?" Fang asked.

"We should go. The kids—"

"Will be okay," Fang said. "Iggy's with them."

"Gazzy—"

"Gazzy's temp broke. He feels better."

"But the ambush yesterday—"

"—was yesterday. Today is today."

"There's no reason for us to sit here. This is stupid."

Well, he certainly looked at me this time. His usually unreadable face was shaded with the vaguest hint of worry—I'd known him long enough to know this was a big deal.

"Why?" His voice was harsh; a challenge. "Because you're fine?"

Anger shot through me briefly. I glared at him. He glared back. After a beat, he took the hot chocolate from my hand, took a long sip, and said, "We've got very different understandings of 'fine.'"

I shot to my feet and spat down at him, "Oh, _do _we?"

Fang, of all things, _smiled_. Like, one of those big, rare, I-forgot-Fang-even-emotes smiles.

"She's back," he said lightly.

And just like that, I felt so, _so _much better.

I sat back down next to him. Wordlessly, he held out the hot chocolate. I took it from him and took a sip, savoring the sweetness, willing myself to recognize this slice of borderline normality in my world of chaos and insanity.

Fang took another bite of cookie. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No," I said automatically.

I took another sip of the hot chocolate, considering what had sent me into this downward spiral. That stupid Christmas song I'd never heard before, the hollow tone of it, the piercing words. _I think of years ago and half-remembered Christmas trees and faces that still warm me with their glow…_

I tried to focus on anything else—I chose the sound of the tenor sax sweetly playing the melody of "I'll Be Home for Christmas."

I groaned.

Fang looked at me in question.

"This song," I said, waving toward the sound of the sax. "Wonder if I'll ever be home for Christmas."

Fang furrowed his brows. "It's just a song."

_The icy air I'm breathing is all that keeps me on my feet; I feel like I've been walking all my life…_

"Yeah," I said heavily, letting out a big puff of air. "Yeah. I guess."

Fang didn't take his eyes off me.

"I was waiting to order at the stupid McDonald's and this song came on—some Christmas song I've never heard before in my life." I stopped talking, wondering if I really wanted to verbalize this stupid moment of crippling weakness to anyone, let alone Fang.

"Okay," Fang said patiently.

I sighed again. "It was about a homeless guy walking around during Christmas. I think. Super depressing. '_The sound of one man walking through the snow can break your heart, but stopping doesn't help, so on I'll go…_'"

For some reason, I expected Fang to laugh at me. He didn't. All he said was, "What kind of Christmas song is _that_?" And then he took the hot chocolate back to me.

"No clue. It kept saying, _'Christmas Eve can kill you when you're trying to hitch a ride to anywhere._'"

Fang stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth and let out a kind of a dismayed, bitter half-laugh. "Jesus."

"Usually when it comes to Christmas, all I do is think about the kids, about how bad I feel for them, about how I wish they could believe in Santa and get showered with presents and leave cookies on the coffee table for him at midnight and throw fake reindeer food on a lawn somewhere... and instead, what do they get?"

It was meant to be rhetorical, but Fang said quietly, "Their asses kicked by Erasers."

I nodded. "And I still feel all of those things, but I was standing there in McDonald's listening to this stupid song and all of a sudden it was, like, I feel bad for _me._"

Fang looked at me in surprise, which was surprising in itself. His expression also dumped a decent amount of shame on me.

"I know it's bad, I know," I said hurriedly. "It's stupid. I need to get over it. But that's what happened."

"It's not _bad_. It's _human_."

"Okay, but that look you just gave me—"

"—was because you never let yourself mourn the loss of the life you could've had."

Oof. "God, when you phrase it like that…"

"What? It's true. That should've been _your _life, too."

"And yours," I said.

Fang shrugged. "Guess so."

"Maybe you shouldn't be the one preaching about 'mourning losses' and all that."

"Maybe."

"I guess you're not the one having a meltdown in a McDonald's, though."

Fang snorted. "Don't act like that. I don't have half the weight on my shoulders that you do."

"Bullshit. How so?"

"Well, to start, nobody's ever told me that I needed to save the world."

I shook my head. "Besides that."

Fang shot me a challenging look. Then he started to tick things off on his fingers. "I don't have to be a mother, I've never been put in a sensory deprivation chamber, I've never had an anonymous Voice in my head telling me cryptic messages, I've never had brain explosions, I've never tried to saw a microchip out of my—"

"Alright, okay, enough," I growled. "Whatever."

We were quiet for a while. A train rattled by us. I closed my eyes and listened to the saxophonist, who had moved on to "The Christmas Song."

"How do you feel now?" Fang asked me softly.

I shrugged, not really sure how to answer the question. I felt effectively hungover from my panic attack. I was itching to get back to the kids. I was still shaky. I was still sad. We still had no home. Bees were still dying at an alarming rate.

"I'm fine," I decided on.

When I opened my eyes, Fang was eyeing me curiously. We locked gazes for what felt like an indefinite amount of time. Fang's eyes had more emotion than I'd ever seen in them. For a second, it felt like something might shift—something monumental, like piece of foundation that could trigger a landslide.

Instead, Fang's eyes flitted down to my hands, shattering our moment. He nodded toward my lap.

"Eat your cookie," he said. His face was unreadable but seemed to indicate that he'd accepted my answer.

"Oh," I said dumbly. I'd totally forgotten about it. I sighed defeatedly for what felt like the fiftieth time that day and took a bite. "Thank you."

It was so much more than just a thank you for the cookie. Fang, of course, knew this. He just shrugged his shoulders and took the cup of hot chocolate from me.

"At least Christmas Eve didn't get us this year," he said with a wry smile, and then he drained the last of it.

* * *

_A/N: **RavenclawGenius517,** a loyal reader and reviewer of Like Lions, requested that I write some Fax-centric holiday fluff. As a fellow Ravenclaw, I feel I owe this to them, so here I am, obliging. This is an old Everly Brothers song—check out the cover by Old Sea Brigade and maybe give the lyrics a read through as I hate inserting an entire song into a fic (remember song fics? Jeez)._

_My friend, I'm not sure if this is what you wanted or had in mind, but this one's for you._

_Since the first two books are really the only ones I consider canon, this takes place sometime after SOF, but shouldn't disrupt the Maximum Ride universe as a whole if you followed the whole series._

_As always, I lack the energy to proofread pretty much anything I write, so this could very likely be akin to a dumpster fire. I hope you enjoy anyway. _

_Merry Christmas from your favorite gram-positive bacteria,_

_staph_


End file.
